


Something in the Night

by bumblefuck



Category: Generation Kill, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-05
Updated: 2010-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:33:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblefuck/pseuds/bumblefuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray saw a lot of fucked up shit in Iraq, but werewolves are a new one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something in the Night

Ray's working nights again, on the desk of the 24-hour gym when the two guys walk in. It's almost midnight, he's the only one working, and he's bored – he had been writing a song dedicated to Encino Man, but got stuck when he couldn't find anything to rhyme with 'fucked up cowardly dick-sucking retard' – so when the chime that announces customers sounds he's actually looking forward to it for once.

He's very surprised when they pull out badges and announce they're FBI, though.

"I'm Agent Ford, this is Agent Hamil," one of them says. He's not small, not by any stretch of the imagination, but next to his partner he looks like a midget. The other guy is _tall._ Ray feels like a shrimp. "We'd just like to ask you some questions."

If they're feds, the Ripped Fuel has finally rotted Ray's brain, just like Brad always said it would.

"Yeah, and I'm Martha fucking Stewart," Ray says, and the two men start back in surprise.

"Excuse me?" the smaller one says. He leans forward over the counter in what Ray assumes he means to be an intimidating manner, green eyes sharp; Ray just gives him a completely unimpressed look.

"Do you think I'm retarded? For one, feds don't carry themselves like you guys do. For two, feds carry Glocks – they certainly don't use a Taurus. Yeah, I saw you tuck it in your pants when you came in." The fake 'Agent Ford' glares at his partner – the other man shrugs back, apologetic. "And finally, feds don't drive an Impala." He gestures to the parking lot – through the gym's floor-to-ceiling front windows, the Impala gleams in the dark. There are only two other cars there, and one is Ray's – the muscle car sticks out like a sore thumb.

"Also," Ray says, "Agents Ford and Hamil? Other people have seen _Star Wars_ too, guys."

Tall-and-shaggy gives an embarrassed cough. Not-quite-as-tall-but-angry gives Ray a glare.

"Look buddy," 'Agent Ford' says, "you want us to book you? Because right now, you're impeding the cause of justice, and-"

"Whatever. I don't give a shit what kind of sick role playing you're into – just get it out of my gym," Ray says. "I was in Iraq, so don't think I couldn't kick both your asses."

They look a little sceptical, but they leave, so Ray's happy. He gives them a cheery wave as they climb into their stupidly shiny car – the shorter one glares, again, while the other one just looks sheepish. He can see them arguing as they drive away.

"Freaky motherfuckers," Ray mutters to himself. He glances over to check on the gym's only customer, a fat dude on a treadmill – still running and puffing and probably going to have a heart attack if the way he's struggling for breath is any indication – then goes back to his songwriting.

He's not sure there's anything that rhymes with 'faggoty-ass pussy', but he's got five hours left on his shift to figure it out.

-

He's using the desk computer to send a long, rambling email to Brad – very against company policy, but who gives a shit – when he hears a bang, then a clatter from the back room. A glance around reveals fatty missing from his treadmill, so Ray slides his feet off the desk, heaves himself from his seat, and heads off to rescue the gym equipment from the idiot.

"Hello?" he calls as he pulls the door to the storeroom open. "You know you're not meant to be in here, right?" He thinks he sees something flash by in the corner of his eye, but it's gone too fast to make out what it is. He shakes his head – too many hours spent under the fluorescent lights are probably just fucking with his vision. What did Brad call it? Autokinesis, that's right. It's probably nothing.

"Come on, buddy," he continues, "I know you're probably dehydrated as fuck from all that sweating, but homes, you're not gonna find any water in here."

There's no answer. Ray pads forward silently, slipping past stacks of mats and shelves full of gym equipment. Rounding the end of one of the shelves, he stops in surprise, all his senses kicking into high gear as his recon training sets in.

The two fake agents from before – Mr Pissy Bastard and his tree of a partner – are standing in front of a scatter of weights they obviously knocked from their stack. Behind them the back door to the storeroom obviously been kicked open and then hastily shut – the handle hangs loose from the wood and the area around the lock is splintered.

Ray ducks back behind the shelves, looking around for a weapon and not finding one. All the heavier weights are within sight of the men, and Ray is surrounded by yoga mats and medicine balls. Useful for yoga, maybe, but not for fighting of intruders. Figures.

He can hear them talking to each other and edges closer to listen. He has to bite back a laugh when he realises they're _arguing._ And in whispers, too. What kind of retarded burglars _are_ they?

"Well, if you hadn't flashed your gun around, he wouldn't have suspected a thing!" the angry one hisses.

"I didn't _flash it around,_ Dean, I was putting it in my damn waistband. And if it wasn't for you stupid flashy car, he wouldn't have known anything was up! He spotted that first, in the friggin' parking lot!"

"Don't you _dare_ blame this on the car, Sam!" Dean retorts. "I will make you _walk_ back to the motel. And you were the one who wasn't 'carrying himself' like an agent, anyway. So don't put this all on me." The air quotes are audible, if not actually carried out, and Ray has to clap a hand over his mouth to smother his laughter.

"Oh yeah? Well whose genius idea was it to go with 'Hamil' and 'Ford'? Someone was eventually going to pick up on that, Dean!"

"Bitch."

"Jerk!"

Finally getting himself under control, Ray steps out from behind his shelf. "Seriously?" he says, and he kind of wishes he'd spent less time laughing and more time thinking of a cool opener, but this is what he's got. It's worth it just to see the looks on the two guys' faces when he surprises them, anyway.

"You're breaking in," he says. "Here. After casing the joint disguised as phony agents. What the _fuck._ "

Sam at least has the decency to look embarrassed. Dean steps forward and sets his shoulders; Ray can tell he's gearing for a fight.

"Look man, we're not breaking in," Dean says, and Ray has to snort. "We're not trying to steal any of your stupid equipment. In fact, we're-"

He steps forward and swings at Ray, who ducks under his arm then grabs it, using the guy's own momentum to throw him into a shelf. More equipment falls down the other side with a crash, and the guy lies there, stunned. Ray turns to the Sam and raises his eyebrows. The guy puts his hands up.

"You wanna tell me what the fuck you're doing here?" Ray says. Behind him, Dean groans, obviously feeling his impact with the shelf and then the floor. "You just stay down there, Dean," Ray tells him. "Me and Sammy here are gonna have a little chat."

"Look, calm down," Sam tries. "We're – well, just trust me, we have a really good reason for being here."

"Uhuh. And what is that, exactly? Don't tell me this is part of your insane, sick sexual fantasy where you pretend to be secret agents and break into places." He makes a face as a thought occurs to him. "Oh, god, are you like that guy who breaks into gyms to have sex with the equipment? Because that is seriously fucked up, homes."

"We're not here for sex!" Dean exclaims. He's sitting up but hasn't moved. Ray keeps an eye on him anyway. "We're here-"

There's a crash from the main gym area, then a growling sound. Dean sighs.

"We're here for that."

"What the fuck was that, then?" Ray says. He moves towards the door to the storeroom, ignoring Sam's warning not to, and pushes it open a fraction.

Fatty's back, but he's different, prowling around through the rows of treadmills. His face is set in a snarl, lips pulled back over teeth that Ray swears weren't long and pointed when he came in. His nails have turned into claws and he looks ready to tear into something, or someone. He's still got the sweat stains under his arms and down his back, but that's about the only thing that's the same.

"What the fuck," Ray whispers, and fatty's head snaps up, eyes locked on Ray where he's peeking out from behind the door. Ray's frozen, brain stuck on _what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck_.

He stumbles back when Sam pushes him out of the way. "Stay here," the taller man orders. Dean follows him out and they square off against the... thing in the middle of the gym with guns drawn.

Ray's pretty sure fatty's not a person any more, but he's not sure he wants to think about what the guy could be instead.

"Hey, ugly," Dean says, "you want a piece of this?"

The thing lunges with a roar and Dean fires. His shots go wide, thudding into the wall, and he and the beast go down. Ray sees Dean get in a few good punches but he's clearly losing. Behind him Sam swears as his gun fails.

"Sammy!" Dean shouts

"It's jammed!" Sam yells back, and Dean curses.

"Well, I'm running out of options, here!" Dean says, and Sam starts to run for the door, presumably for more weapons from the car.

"Hang on!" he tells Dean.

"Easier said than done," Dean grinds out. He's got a hold of both the thing's wrists, grappling with it. Its teeth clash together as it tries to bite him; Ray wonders how his life is like this. He thought his days of dealing with overwhelming fucked-upness were over with OIF.

"Shit!" Dean cries as the beast struggles in his grip. One of his hands slips and the thing's teeth narrowly miss his neck. "Come on, Sam..."

Ray makes a decision, shakes off his shock, and dives for Dean's gun.

"Hey, you fat motherfucker," Ray shouts. He has no clever words, no stupid superhero slogans, just a gun and a bullet with the beast's name on it. The monster turns, snarling, and Ray fires. The shot is deafening, the feel of a gun in his hands familiar. He catches it between the eyes, sending it crashing down on top of Dean. Blood sprays the wall behind it. That's going to be a bitch to explain to his boss.

There's silence after the shot. Or, there is until Sam crashes back through the doors, new gun in hand. He stops short when he takes in the scene – Dean pushing the thing off him, Ray with gun in hand, arm still outstretched.

"Iraq, huh?" Dean says, a grudging respect in his voice. He's breathing hard, bruised from the monster's onslaught, but standing.

"Corporal Ray Person, at your service," Ray says. "Except you should totally be at mine, seeing as I just saved your ass."

Dean laughs. "I'm Dean Winchester," he says, "and this is my brother Sam. And thanks."

"You okay, Dean?" Sam asks. He picks up his discarded Taurus from the floor, tucking it back into his pants.

"Fine," Dean replies, brushing himself off. Not that it helps – his clothes are crooked on him and his hair mussed from the fight.

"What the fuck _was_ that?" Ray says. He thinks he should be shocked, at the very least surprised that there are... things, out there, that aren't human, but he isn't. He can feel the adrenaline running through him. He feels more awake than he has in ages.

"Werewolf," Dean says. Ray holds up the gun wordlessly. "Silver bullets."

"Right." Ray walks over to them, looking down at the body of the monster. "He doesn't look much like a wolf." He cocks his head, then smiles as something occurs to him. "Actually, he looks like someone who lives in his mom's basement and just forgot to take off some of his Klingon costume."

Dean scoffs. "Don't believe everything you see on TV," he says. "They're nasty fucks. You didn't get bit or anything, did you?"

"No way homes, you think I'd let this piece of shit even touch me? I was a fucking Recon Marine, basic training was harder than this shit."

Dean laughs at that. Then a considering look comes across his face, and he pulls Sam aside.

"Just give us a sec, yeah?" he says, and Ray nods. They move to the far corner of the room to talk; he guesses they're debating how much to tell him, how much he already knows.

He wonders what he's going to say about this after. If he'll have to call the police. If they'll believe him.

"Fine," Dean says, a little too loud. They walk back over to him.

"Look," Sam says, "we really appreciate all your help, but we gotta go. Can you take care of this mess?"

Ray nods. "Sure thing, homes. I get it. Don't let me cramp your monster-killing style." He pulls out his cell. "I got this."

"Thanks," Sam says. He follows Dean out towards the parking lot. They pause at the door.

"You were really impressive back there," Dean tells him. "Not many civilians would've done that."

"Not a civilian, homes," Ray replies. "What do you take me for, some limpdick who's never carried a weapon?"

Dean smiles. "Right. Well, thanks again." Ray nods in reply.

"Take care of yourself," Sam says, and then they're gone. The Impala's rumbling engine is loud in the night.

He dials 911, tells the officer about how some drugged-up freak came in and started tearing the place apart, how he had to protect himself. The conversation is short; the officer tells him a car will be there shortly, then hangs up.

Ray looks at his phone, then around the gym, empty save himself and the body of the thing he killed.

He thinks about how his uniform shirt chafes on him almost as much as his job does, how his boss rides his ass, how he works long hours for shitty pay. He thinks about Iraq, about the crack of the gun in his hands, about how he hasn't felt this alive in a long time. He opens his cell again.

"Hey Walt," he says. "Yeah, I know it's late, homes, I can read a fucking clock." He fiddles with his shirt collar for a second, then says, "How do you feel about saving the world?"


End file.
